Author: heather

First off: Sorry, everyone, for not posting for the past six months or so. Owing to some personal matters (OK, a miscarriage, since I hate cryptic allusions to mystery crises in other people’s online communication, but PLEASE let us never speak of it again even if it’s just to tell me you’re sorry!) I just couldn’t bring myself to write blog posts for awhile. But now I’m back and ready to update you on all the boogers and poops of my so-adorable children.

Those of you who have read my blog will doubtless remember the School Pants Debacle. If not, let me fill you in. James needed two pairs of navy slacks for preschool last spring, which meant we had to try them on in a fitting room. For some reason, the stroller did not make it to the mall with us. The resultant 900-decibel tantrum by James and gleeful prison break by Thomas earned us some amount of notoriety at The Children’s Place — nay, at the very mall itself. The School Pants Debacle is the shopping disaster by which all shopping disasters are measured in our family.

Now, you may be asking yourself, “What does James hate more than school pants?”

“Nothing” is not the right answer.

Had you been there at the Big White Ski Resort Debacle, you would know that the correct answer is “jackets.” James’ hatred for parkas, coats, anoraks, hoodies, blazers, windbreakers, and anything else that goes over one’s clothes and fastens in front is so intense that we have what I call The Negative Twenty Rule. If it is above negative 20, he may wear his shirtsleeves, since at these temperatures, the jacket plus the tantrum would provide the heat necessary for our son to spontaneously ignite. If it is below negative 20, he is forced to wear his coat and the rest of us are forced to listen to his No. 1 hit single, “I-no-wear-my-jacket-no-no-no-no-no-no-Mommy-no-jacket-aaaahhhhhh-ahhhhhhhh-ahhhhhhhhhhggghhhhhh!”

His size 2 jacket was a great jacket. He wore it for two whole years, or about four times. But alas, he is no longer a size 2. And what’s worse than a jacket? Why, a new jacket, of course. James finds any new clothes disturbing. Even the new shoes he picked out himself for PE class, after much explanation about how he had to have clean new shoes to use in the gym, were the focus of a major meltdown the first day he had to wear them. So, as the weather has grown colder over the past month, I’ve been trying to warm him up to the idea of a new jacket.

“Boy, it’s chilly this morning,” I would say. “Look, your friend Andrew is wearing a jacket today.”

“Andrew’s wearing a jacket today,” James smiled back.

“Pretty soon, it will be time for you to wear YOUR jacket,” I commented cheerfully.

“I DON’T WANNA WEAR NO JACKET, MOMMY!”

“You can pick it out yourself.”

“NOOOOOOOO JACKET!”

“You can choose whichever one you like, James” I continued (mentally adding, “As long as it’s 50 percent off,” because that’s how I roll).

This conversation happened about five times, and the protests became quieter and less adamant each time. This week, since James was the only kid at school without a jacket and there was a sale at Please Mum (although, sadly, only 30 percent off), Chris and I toted the boys to the dreaded mall.

Yet again, we didn’t have the stroller, but it never hurts to have a big burly dad along to scoop up errant tots. Did I mention it was already naptime? So we had errant tots aplenty.

James and Thomas have not been shopping at the mall in quite some time (not least because I’m terrified we’ll be recognized at The Children’s Place), so they ran happily amok among the clothing while Chris and I looked for boys’ jackets in 4T.

“James, what jacket do you like best?” I asked.

“I don’t want a jacket!” he yelled in his robot voice, laughing and running in a circle around a rack with Thomas in pursuit.

“How about a blue one? Or this one with dragons? Or the cool dinosaurs?”

“A blue one!” James yelled without looking at the jackets.

We pulled a blue parka out for him.

“I don’t want that jacket!” he shouted, bug-eyed.

Then he picked out the same jacket, but in a much smaller size.

“OK, James, let’s try it on,” I said as Chris swapped the 3T for the 18 month.

“NOOOOO! I want THAT one!” James roared, pointing at a plaid number in a bid to delay wearing the dreaded jacket.

Unfortunately for James, the plaid jacket was also available in a 3.

I tried to make a game out of trying it on, putting my hand through the sleeve and tickling at him, but he was having none of it. He squirmed away from the jacket like a greased hog at the county fair. He flung himself on the ground and dared me to shove his limbs into the coat, as the world’s most annoying salesgirl hovered asking if she could help. (“Why yes, you may. Do you have any tranquilizer guns on hand?”) I knew I had to pull out the heavy artillery.

“James, if you try this jacket on, I will give you jelly beans in the car.”

“NO.”

“I will give you a LOT of jelly beans, James.” (I’m not great at bribery.)

Then, in a flash of brilliance, Chris remembered that we had just bought some Rockets (or Smarties, in the states) for me to eat on the ride home trick-or-treaters.

And grudgingly, with tears in his little bug-eyes and his brow all furrowed with anguish, James agreed to let me stuff him into his new jacket and zip it up.

And for all that, it was this close to being too small. We needed to try the next size up. But James had tried on his limit. He was done.

“James, I will give you TWICE AS MUCH CANDY!” I said brightly.

James made a noise that can only be described as The Angry Robot and bolted. We bought the 4T assuming that if it didn’t fit yet, it would soon enough. Better that than a fresh debacle.

So, crisis averted with only a little bit of crying instead of the entire mall being alerted to James’ hatred for outerwear, we made our purchase and left the store with, if not ALL our dignity intact, at least some of it. (Chris, of course, was traumatized by the shopping trip and thinks I’m crazy for pronouncing it a success. Shopping with kids for Chris is like a winter coat is for James.)

Coming soon(?): James wearing his winter coat. (Please, please let him wear it without covering the western half of Canada in snot.)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; we were on the path to big-boyhood, we were all on the fast track to crazy.

As my children one day look back on a childhood that will — regardless of how they are raised — likely be regarded as Dickensian (although in fairness, they are always welcome to as much gruel as they like), one of the great tragedies that stand out will be the tale of James’ two beds.

Tragic for James simply because he was expected to move to a new bed. Tragic for Thomas because he had to wait more than a year to get his long-awaited toddler bed. And tragic for the rest of us because bedtime comes at the end of the day and we prefer sleep to prolonged, hysterical tantrums.

When we moved into this house at the beginning of last July, we placed the big-boy bed in James’ room, right across from the toddler bed, hoping its presence would entice James to one day crawl into it. We decked it out in Diego sheets and made a big to-do about how cool it was. Months passed, and James was happy to play on the new bed, but still crawled into his toddler bed to sleep.

“James,” I told him on several occasions, “Tonight you are going to start sleeping in the big-boy bed.”

I placed all his special toys in the right parts of the bed, and covered him up with his special blanket.

“Good-night,” I would say. It was then, as I tucked him in, that James invariably leapt from the bed, pulling all his toys with him.

“I sleep in my little bed!” he insisted. “I can’t sleep in the Diego bed!”

One night, I removed the sheets from his toddler bed before this familiar routine. James was undeterred. He tackled the bare mattress, blanket in hand, crying, “I sleep in my Thomas Train bed!”

“Would you sleep in your big-boy bed if we put Thomas Train sheets on it?” I asked him.

“No, I sleep in my little bed,” he wailed. “I not big, I just a little boy.”

This was true. He was barely 3 at this point, and being screened for autism to boot. Since Thomas was (and is) perfectly happy to sleep in his crib, James remained in the little bed.

Weeks passed. Months passed. And this month, I realized we were halfway through summer vacation, and that my next chance to break him of his toddler bed without adding to his stress would be next summer — when he’s 4-and-a-half and Thomas himself is nearly too old for the toddler bed.

So I began telling James, “Very soon, you will start sleeping in your Diego bed. Thomas is a big boy now and needs the little bed.”

James tried to reason with me.

“Thomas not a big boy,” he’d say. “He a baby. Thomas sleep in the crib.”

“Thomas can’t sleep in the crib, James. He might climb out and break his head.”

“Thomas can sleep in my little bed, and I sleep with him.”

“Your bed is too little for two boys. You will sleep in your Diego bed.”

“I can’t sleep in the Diego bed! Thomas sleep in his crib!”

And so on.

But yesterday, when we had the conversation at naptime, James suddenly said, “I sleep in my Diego bed today.”

He ended up sleeping in the toddler bed again, but tonight, Chris and I stripped his toddler bed and moved it into Thomas’ room. Out of sight, out of mind.

James hopped calmly — even happily — into the big-boy bed, where all his special cars and stuffies were waiting for him. He insisted that I play cars with him for an inordinately long time, and requested not just his lullabye but three Christmas songs. But when I tucked him in, he stayed. And shouted “Sweet dreams, Mommy!” as I shut the door.

I have been known to cry at bedtime — usually from sheer frustration. It’s nice to shed a happy tear, for a change.

Not a single thump or shriek has been heard from James’ room in the two hours since I tucked him in.

Tonight I rest. And tomorrow, Thomas gets the long-anticipated toddler bed. Unlike the yearlong saga of James’ big-boy bed, however, we’re pretty sure how that one will go over.

When I was a kid, there was a girl named Kristina who lived down the street. She was a thug and a bully, and at the age of 9 she pronounced the word ambulance, “ambucklance.” But her mom (a teacher) insisted to all and sundry that Kristina was a gifted and wonderful child who would never lie, brawl or harrass smaller children. Because, as parents, we are quick to see the best in our children and are often blind to potential problem areas.

As a kid, I thought Kristina’s mom was either evil or a complete idiot — or maybe both. But now, as a parent who tries to be realistic about my kids’ strengths and weaknesses yet often finds her perceptions failing to jibe with reality, I can view that deluded neighborhood mom’s situation with a little more empathy. She was just seeing her child through “mom goggles.”

We’ve known for awhile that James is not like other 3-year-olds. We knew he wasn’t like other 2-year-olds, and before that, other 18-month-0lds. He lost speech and lined up toys. He filled his excavator buckets with spit bubbles for what seemed like hours. He refused to wear a jacket even at -20 degrees. He was so late learning to walk that we nearly consulted a doctor about it, and when he did learn, he split his face open on a regular basis because he never put his hands out to catch himself. Yet he was always doing just enough to get a passing grade on the developmental checklists.

When he finally began speaking sentences regularly, around 2-and-a-half, his speech was repetitive, loud and monotonous. Often, when asked a question, he’d just state it back to us. There were meltdowns — not just toddler tantrums, but panick-stricken, I’m-going-to-die-imminently meltdowns — based around clothing, shoes, new situations, dirt, grass, you name it. I resolved that if our doctor did not agree to refer James for an autism assessment at his 3-year checkup, I would find a new doctor.

Of course, developmental delays and neurological differences are much easier to spot in a 3-year-old than in a prematurely born 18-month-old. James was immediately given a referral for an assessment. Unfortunately, the referral was to the most popular pediatrician in the area, who seems to be on vacation all the time. His office staff got back to my doctor’s receptionist last month, a mere four-and-a-half months after the initial call, and told her there was a year’s wait. And then, after the year’s wait, he might be referred to yet another doctor. (Austism experts are in such high demand, both in Canada and the States, that this will be a familiar refrain for parents dealing with autistic spectrum disorders.)

So now we’re going to a new, less-popular pediatrician, and have an appointment for later this month. My doctor’s superstar receptionist has been calling everywhere on James’ behalf, and discovered that the second doctor we’d eventually see would likely send James to a special network that refers kids to all kinds of early-intervention programs (after the two years of jumping through hoops, of course!). So she had our doctor refer James himself, saving us the two-year wait for a referral to the program.

Not one to sit on my hands and wait for my little boy to age out of the early-childhood programs, however, I had also contacted the Ministry of Children and Family Development, which provides assessments for kids who show signs of developmental and neurological disorders. And, pretty much the moment I hit “save” on James’ online form, we got a call from the woman who screens children for autism, telling us that James sounded as if he needed early intervention and that since there was a wait for preschool-age children and he’d been premature, that he could get an open spot in their infant program (which goes to age 3). All we had to do was go in and let her meet with James.

Normally, when you introduce your kids to people, these are the thoughts that run through your head:
“I hope he doesn’t have a tantrum.”
“I hope she is polite.”
“Please don’t let him punch her in the throat when she tries to shake his hand.”

But when you’re taking a kid in for an autism assessment — a kid whose preschool teacher has suggested applying for a classroom aide because his social skills and motor coordination aren’t even close to that of your average preschooler — you just hope she sees what you and those close to your child see. (Especially after a year and a half of being told “It’s just too soon to tell whether this is autism or delays caused by being premature.”)

And even as I brought him in, there was always the lurking suspicion that my little boy was so high on the spectrum that his autistic traits might be dismissed with a wave of the hand.

“Oh, your child is a little odd,” I imagined the evaluator saying, “But we don’t really see anything alarming — nothing that would prevent him from, say, graduating summa cum laude from Harvard and running a wildly successful business and marrying an astrophysicist supermodel.”

Yesterday was our appointment. I canceled the gym and we headed out with the kids. Chris had volunteered to drop us off so I wouldn’t get lost in the jumble of one-way streets downtown, and he took the other kids to pick up Timbits while James and I visited with the early-intervention clinician.

After a terrifying elevator ride (for which I forgot to prepare James), we entered the office and met with the assessor. I filled out questionnaire after questionnaire, while James found a basket of vehicles and immediately retrieved the sole digger.

In autism-speak, diggers and other heavy equipment are something on which he “perseverates,” meaning that he is completely obsessed with them.

“Well, he doesn’t have any problem with eye contact,” the assessor noted cheerfully. My heart sank. James is always smiling and making eye contact, and despite having so many other traits that would almost certainly put him on the spectrum, he is not discernably different until you try to have a conversation with him.

James played with vehicles and helicopters the entire time. Except when he noticed dirt on the floor. Then he carefully scooped up every stray piece of sand from beneath the clinician’s sand-play table and helpfully deposited it in her hands.

“Now THAT,” she told me with a wry smile, “Is not developmentally appropriate. At 3, we expect children to be using a little broom or suggesting a vacuum.”

And indeed, it occurred to me that, when she was 2, Maddux had begged for cleaning supplies for Christmas. And that she hadn’t handed me dirt since she was about 14 months old. Even Thomas doesn’t hand me dirt. I felt a little more validated in my concerns about James.

Then the screener took a quick look at one the forms I’d filled out.

“Well, James’ lifetime Social Communication Questionnaire got a score of 25,” she told me. “Anything above a 10, we recommend an evaluation — and 15 is the cutoff for autism. This isn’t a diagnosis, just a preliminary assessment, but James definitely meets the criteria.”

Even though I had known he would easily meet the cutoff, my heart dropped into my stomach. In my motherly disconnect from reality, I had still grossly underestimated the amount by which he’d blow the cutoff out of the water. This wasn’t an Asperger Syndrome score. This might be closer to an adult-daycare score. The rest of the meeting was a blur as I filled out yet more forms for seemingly every early-intervention program and tool in the province’s arsenal.

All I could think as we finished the visit was, “How could I have ever doubted there might be something really amiss?”

The clinician must have noticed my numb expression, because she leaned over and said reassuringly, “Don’t worry. This is his lifetime score, not his current score. He’s obviously come a long way in the last little while, which is a really positive sign — and the early intervention will help.”

So, we still have no official diagnosis in hand, and won’t for at least a month or so. But James is now in the queue for physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy and a host of other services available for children with autistic spectrum disorders.

I feel relieved and validated on the one hand, because my instincts were not wrong — James is a child who requires a little extra help in many areas, and now he will be able to get it. On the other hand, I feel foolish for thinking it was possible my son’s case was so mild that he could fall through the diagnostic cracks.

OF COURSE a 3-year-old should not be screaming blue murder for a half-hour at the prospect of wearing school clothes. OF COURSE it’s abnormal for a kid to spend an entire naptime creating an impressive tower of spit bubbles at the foot of his bed. OF COURSE it’s not too much to expect to be able to have a real conversation with your average preschooler.

I’m so used to looking at James through “mom goggles” that it’s difficult for me to accept how very unlike other children his age he actually is. While they are impressing the teacher with their phonics knowledge, James is running away from proffered handshakes (or worse yet, doing his signature throat-jab). He won’t hold a pencil. He sits backward at rectangle time. And despite repeated admonitions, he doesn’t see why oscillating his hips like a sprinkler while he pees is not as amusing to his parents and teachers as it is to him.

So now I’ve had to take the “mom goggles” off and gain some realistic perspective on James’ development. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to join the fund-raising pity party at Autism Speaks and tell everyone how my child makes me want to drive off a bridge and has Ruined My Life. No matter what his challenges may be, James is a treasure rather than a burden. He’s the same sweet, sensitive, dry-humored, eager-to-please, dump-truck-loving boy he was two days ago. But in order to help him navigate school, and life in general, I need to acknowledge that he faces significant difficulties in certain situations, and that he will need at least a few accommodations and coping strategies in order to survive a world full of people who don’t share his particular neurological structure.

However, I will point out that, unlike that bratty neighbor girl, James has not yet told a deliberate lie, and he can pronounce ambulance at least as well as Kristina could.

Did I mention he REALLY LIKES construction vehicles?

To some kids, being affectionate comes easily. Maddux, for instance, has been saying “I love you” since forever. And once Thomas mastered the high-five, he moved on to blowing kisses.

James, on the other hand, has been reluctant to come around. He was nearly 3 before he uttered the phrase “I love you” for the first time, and until last month, I was pretty sure he would never kiss anyone without a gun pressed to his temple.

But one night, as I was leaving his room after tucking him in, James proclaimed with a big smile, “Mommy, I give you kiss!”

Well, far be it from me to pass up this once-in-a-lifetime offer! I knelt down obligingly for a sloppy kiddo kiss.

Now, most kids will just pucker up and kiss their parents. But James is very meticulous about the whole thing. With his lips extended for maximum drooly contact, he roots around on my cheek for the perfect place to plant a wet one, breathing hotly in my ear all the while. Sometimes he unpuckers and re-puckers his lips just to make sure they’re in firing position.

Finally, once he has found the exact center of my cheek, he opens his mouth, checks it with his tongue just to make sure he’s right (this takes approximately 3 to 5 seconds, accompanied by yet more heavy breathing), and then, after all of this drooling and hot breath, he pulls his lips AWAY from the target cheek and makes a kissing noise in the air.

After this several-minute process, he is then ready to kiss the other cheek. (And heaven forbid that the kiss or his bedtime routine in general is interrupted — that requires that the whole process begin afresh.)

A few days into my now-nightly kiss routine with James, I noticed that while he was searching my cheek for the perfect place to lay a smooch on it, he was whispering something very quietly under his breath. Not wanting to jinx my new sloppy-goodnight-kiss routine, I didn’t ask my son what he was whispering.

Days turned into weeks. James was now asking for stories and new songs in addition to his insistence on covering my face in slobber and toothpaste-sweet baby breath. And still, I couldn’t quite make out his whispers.

Finally, tonight, he leaned toward me with sparking eyes and grabbed either side of my face with a chubby little hand.

“Come here, Mommy,” James smiled. “I kiss your little tongue.”

“You’re going to kiss my cheek?” (James is still a little confused about all the different parts of the face.)

“Yes,” James corrected himself. “I kiss your little chin.”

And then, as he leaned toward me, warm breath whispering those mysterious nothings once more as his drooly little mouth grazed my cheek, I just barely made out the words, “I don’t bite Mommy’s ears off.”

So maybe I can’t count on James to remind me constantly that he loves me, or to blow me kisses. But at least I can rest assured that he won’t be gnawing off my face, either. And I can’t say I’ve received that promise from the other two

Last September, on the first day we brought Maddux to preschool, James refused to enter the door. You see, the last time we had visited the school, he’d been sitting in his stroller. So, naturally, it was to be assumed that if his feet touched the floor inside the school, they would disintegrate.

For a week, James would scream at the entrance to the school until he was carried across the threshold, and would persist with such vigor that he drained his sinuses and tear ducts in 5 minutes flat. After a week, he obliged me by dragging his feet very reluctantly into the school, but would wait anxiously outside the classroom — as if it were filled with high explosives — while I got his sister situated. Then he ran for the exit as fast as his little feet would carry him until, outside the school, he gulped in lungful after heaving lungful of freedom.

Finally, sometime approaching November, he decided it was safe to enter the classroom as long as he hovered in the doorway, ready to bolt at the first sign of … whatever. (The catalyst behind his shrieking dashes to freedom usually was a request by Maddux’ teacher for a handshake.)

But as weeks turned to months and months turned to seasons, James began venturing farther into the classroom and closer to the teacher. After a few holiday parties, he decided that perhaps the classroom floor was NOT covered in hot lava, after all. And sometimes, with a bit of prompting, he even agreed to shake hands with the teacher.

For a few months now, James has been prattling away about how he’s going to go to preschool and eat cheddar bunnies and play on the playground with Gabriella (an effervescent little girl who relentlessly chases and kisses him). All that stood in his way was potty training, which we did over spring break.

I will admit, in light of his previous track record of school-related freakouts, that I was a little nervous about his first day. Would he hit the teacher when she tried to guide his hand at name-writing time? Would he shake hands, or run away? Would he follow any classroom rules at all?

The preschool day started with an inauspicious tantrum. Those who know James are well aware that he will scream until his nose bleeds if he is made to wear a coat, even at -20. And I believe we’ve covered what happens when he has to try on new pants. So, think tornado siren, and triple the noise. Think 18-month-old at vaccinations, and triple the tears and snot. Throw in some kicking and flailing. That is how James felt about his school clothes.

“OK, Maddux, we’re going to school now,” I said casually. “James has decided to stay home with me and baby Thomas and have a nap.”

Still screaming, and streaming snot and tears, and trying to wrench his clothing off, James wailed, “I NOT STAY HOME. I go school and play on the big playground!”

All right, then.

A daycare helper held Thomas as I strong-armed James into his carseat and gave him a Wet One to wipe his snot, and away we went. Did I mention this tantrum occurred at the gym? Those daycare girls are saints!

Luckily, the tragedy of new clothing was swiftly forgotten (well, 45 minutes and two car rides later) and by the time we alighted from the SUV, James was trotting at top speed toward the entrance. With just a minor stop for a quick picture of an impatient James, we raced to the preschool classroom, where James immediately filled his personalized mug with water and opened his much-anticipated snack.

At long last!

Alas, in his haste to enjoy his snack, James neglected to use the toilet. (If we’re going to be frank, it was not so much neglected as flatly and angrily rejected.) As I was observing snacktime, James shrieked: “I go pee-pee!”

And go pee-pee James certainly did. His clothes were drenched to the socks and shoes. There was nothing left to put in the toilet. Oh, well. You can’t spell “preschool” without “p,” right? So, 15 minutes into his first day of preschool, James was changed into his backup outfit of jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt.

He returned to his table — and immediately spilled a very full mug of water right down his front.

I asked James, now damp from chest to knees, whether we should leave.

“No, I stay and eat my bunnies!” he insisted bravely. “I play on the big playground!”

And so we stayed. He unrolled a mat and took down a basket of blocks. Since he was in his last change of clothes and they were already wet, I made sure he used the toilet every half-hour. In all the peeing and water-spilling, we hadn’t written his name out, but I wasn’t going to mention that to his teacher. Rectangle time would be challenge enough, I figured.

But apparently, I’d underestimated James. One of two other new kids, a very spirited European boy who sat next to James, was running and bouncing about during rectangle time while James, against all odds, sat mostly in his spot. Facing away from the teacher and everyone else, mind you — but hey. It’s James. I was just happy he wasn’t squealing like a pig at slaughter. He even turned around halfway through and started participating in the story (only in preschool would students be asked to periodically scream at the top of their lungs … which is why I am not a preschool teacher).

At the end of rectangle, all the kids sat in a line on the floor, waiting to be dismissed. James, as usual, needed a little more guidance than most, but sat behind his new friend after some prompting.

It was then, at 3:15 p.m. — by which time he has usually already been napping for an hour — that I tried to put James’ backpack on him.

He screamed as if I were trying to strap a dynamite vest to his body, miraculously hurdled over three children despite his usual lack of anything resembling coordination, and blazed out the door and down the hall. I caught up to him at the heavy double doors at the front of his school and prodded him back to the classroom, where he opted to wait outside until his sister was dismissed, casting a wary eye upon the offending backpack.

As the teacher said good-bye to all her students, James sweetly shook her hand.

And then he trotted proudly out the door, deeming his school day a resounding success. And I had to say, considering the beginning of the school year, I agree.

James shares a table with one of his favorite classmates, Maddux